Those Who Serve
by Yeahsureyoubetcha
Summary: A certain archaeologist is looking for Jack. After their imprisonment on Hadante, he has some questions that only O'Neill can answer . . . Missing scene from 'Prisoners'. (Written in honor of November 11th)


**Disclaimer:** 'Stargate SG-1' and all of its characters belong to a lot of people. Unfortunately I am not one of them. Also the italicized portion of dialogue at the beginning of this one-shot was taken directly from a transcript of the Season 2 episode 'Prisoners'. All rights and credit for these words belong to, well . . . somebody else.

**Warning! May contain spoilers for the episode 'Prisoners' **

**Time Frame:** Takes place after SG-1 makes it back to Earth, but before they learn the truth about Linea.

**Genre:** Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

**Author's Note:** The idea for this piece has been rolling around in my head for quite awhile. I've attempted to write it several times, but never got past the first paragraph. Then today, I opened the file and began to write. This is the result. I've only proof read it twice (at least 150% less proof reading than usual for me) and I haven't decided yet if this is a good thing. Hopefully, it's not too bad.

Well, ready or not, here we go . . .

* * *

**_Earlier on the planet Hadante . . ._**

_"I'm just going to assume you've never been in prison before."_

_"Oh, right. And - and you have?"_

_Pointedly, O'Neill answered Daniel with a stare. "Oh, yeah . . ."_

* * *

**_Back on Earth, hallway of Stargate Command . . ._**

Fresh from a much needed shower as well as his post mission physical, Daniel Jackson paced down an empty corridor. Without thinking his legs carried him around first one turn and then the other, effectively guiding him toward the SGC's on-base sleeping quarters. Counting down the doors, he came to number seven - the last one in the hall and hence the least used.

Nervously, the archaeologist swallowed, shoving at his glasses and shifting from foot to foot. General Hammond had ordered them to get some rest before attempting to debrief. If Jack intended to comply with that order, here is where he would be. Granted, that was a pretty big 'if' . . . but considering that a search of the commissary, locker room, gym, showers, infirmary, and (of all places) Jack's office had yielded no results, this seemed as fair a prospect as any.

Reaching for the knob, Jackson gave it a turn. When it responded easily enough, he kept turning, a look of hope and curiosity pulling at his features. Seconds later he pressed against the door, opening it inch by cautious inch. As light from the hall began streaming into the darkened space, he winced. Why he wasn't exactly sure. It wasn't as if he actually expected Jack to still be asleep - assuming of course that he was even inside. If there was one thing Daniel had learned over the past year or so, it was that one does not 'slip by' nor 'sneak up on' a former black ops extraordinaire. It just didn't happen. Especially when one was still very much a novice at the whole tactics thing. For all the good his clumsy version of 'stealth' might do, he might as well come in with a brass band. Predictably, this rather depressing thought sparked an eye roll along with a huffy kind of sigh from the archaeologist. But now was not the time for such musings . . .

With this in mind, he mentally threw caution to the wind and stepped into the sleeping quarters. Bending in half, straightening and then rocking onto his toes, Daniel scanned the sets of bunk beds. A familiar lump in the farthest corner soon claimed his attention. It was a long lump, slightly mounded on one end and stretching about two inches farther than the allotted length of the bed.

"Jack?"

Nothing.

Pursing his lips, Daniel left his post at the door and threaded his way through the bunks. As he walked, the familiar lump took on a more precise form - the form, as he'd suspected, of a certain Colonel. Now that he was closer, he could tell the man in question was laying on his stomach, head pillowed in the crook of one arm, with his feet - still in combat boots - propped over the metal railing.

"Jack?"

Still nothing.

"I know you're awake."

A muffled reply that sounded something like 'wa veriz bount hoo', rose to tickle the linguist's ears. When these syllables failed to compute or morph into some kind of recognizable order, he frowned. "What?"

Groaning and executing a stretch that shook his whole frame, O'Neill tucked an arm beneath his chest. From this semi-erect posture, he fired a lackluster glare at Daniel. "I said, 'how very observant of you'." Even in the poor lighting of the bunk room, Jack was certain he saw the younger man flush. Blue eyes fell to the floor and the anxious foot-shuffling he'd heard in the hall started again.

Softening at this perfect picture of bundled, geeky nerves, the Colonel smiled. "So . . . what's up?"

"Erm, well, . . . I, ah . . . hmm."

"That bad, huh?"

"No! No, not . . . well . . . I mean it's just kind of . . ."

"Awkward?"

"Yeah. That," Daniel nodded, arms folding tightly about his rib cage.

"Well . . . this should be fun."

"Hmm. Fun."

"Yeah." Jack sighed. Chasing the sarcasm from his voice, he murmured a second, more sincere prompt. "What's on your mind, Danny?"

Silence. A brief hesitation and then . . .

"You."

Of all the things he might have expected to hear, _that_ was not one of them. Face blanching with surprise, the Colonel pushed himself a bit higher on his elbow. "Come again?"

Inhaling and exhaling in a rush, Daniel hurried forward. "Jack, back on Hadante you said . . . you said you'd been in prison before."

Darkness flamed across O'Neill's expression, but he said nothing. His stillness a dangerous, tangible warning in and of itself.

"Jack?"

A warning his notorious, incorrigible, stubborn archaeologist thought it his duty to ignore, naturally.

"Jack, wh -"

"What, Daniel?" The words came out a bit more harshly than he'd intended. They echoed through the concrete space, growing stronger, almost angrier, with each reverberation. When the last murmur died away, Jack found he was breathing hard. "What, Daniel?" he repeated thickly. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, i-i-it's just . . . I mean I never even thought . . ." Floundering helplessly, the archaeologist flailed his arms. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why would I?"

"Because I'm you're friend! I care about you."

"Hey, our friendship's got nothing to do with this!"

"But, Jack -"

"Look there's a lot about me you don't know, okay? Just because we're friends doesn't mean you get to take the full fifty cent tour of my past." Pausing to take a breath, the Colonel glanced toward the closest wall. "It's better that way - trust me."

"Why?"

"Because three months in an Iraqi prison camp does _not _ make for good conversation material, okay?"

An inaudible gasp left Daniel's lips. Three months? Jack O'Neill had been at the mercy of an enemy for three months? The very thought at once astounded and horrified him. Things like that weren't supposed to happen. Not to Jack. Not here on Earth. Not here where they were safe.

Where they were _supposed_ to be safe . . .

"Jack, I . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry you went through that."

Blinking, thoroughly dumbfounded, the Colonel latched onto Daniel with his eyes. As a returning P.O.W. he had heard many things, from many people. Some told him how lucky he was to have survived. Some thanked him for his service. Still others lauded him as a hero. But no one, not even his wife had ever thought to say they were sorry . . . sorry for what had happened to him.

No one that is, except Dr. Jackson.

Dismissing this pointless and rather melancholy thought, O'Neill turned away - a shrug rippling along his shoulders. "Forget it, Daniel. Doesn't matter."

"You're wrong, Jack. It does matter," the archaeologist argued passionately. "You didn't deserve that."

"Nobody does, Daniel. But it happens - that's part of war. Part of fighting for freedom. When you're in the armed services, stuff like that just comes with the territory." Tensing his jaw, the Colonel stared back at his friend. A small eternity passed, unspoken words circling between them, until at last he managed to speak. "I volunteered for this, Daniel - just like thousands of other men and women. I chose this. I knew what I was getting into. Yeah, sometimes it's rotten. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I hate myself. Hate the things I've done; and what's been done to me . . . but at the end of the day, you know what? It's worth it. It's _all_ worth it."

Open, full of conviction, the words of this statement hung heavy in the air. For once in his life, the linguist could think of nothing to say . . .

"Jack?"

Well, almost nothing . . .

"Yes, Daniel?"

"It still isn't fair."

"No, Daniel. I guess it isn't."

Pensively, the archaeologist dropped his head. Retracing his steps to the door, he paused, one hand on the knob. "Hey, Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"It wasn't right. It shouldn't have happened, not to you or anyone else. But for what you did - what you went through . . . thanks."

* * *

**THE END**

**Here in America, November 11th is a day for remembering our Veterans. I know this story isn't much, but for what it's worth I would like to dedicate it to the men and women of the United States armed forces. I can never repay you for all you have lost, sacrificed and freely given. All I can do is offer you my gratitude.**

**For all you have done I am truly humbled, honored and blessed. Thank you!**

**Yeahsureyoubetcha**


End file.
